


Sticks and Stones

by Echo7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power of Words, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo7/pseuds/Echo7
Summary: Patsy Mount could not speak for stones, but she was well acquainted with the damage sticks could do. But even knowing the horrors that they, and presumably stones, could bring, she also knew that words were just as capable of inflicting pain. Of leaving scars.But there was one phrase that had heralded more pain in Patience Mount’s life than any other. Three little words, that when combined, could instill more cold terror in her than any other words, sticks, or stones could ever hope to muster.I love you.--or--A meditation on the power of words in Patsy Mount's life.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 29
Kudos: 63





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey guys. How about a 12,000 word character study about language?
> 
> Fear not, the next chapter of _GoG_ is over halfway done, but this one wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (oh, and I'm footloose and beta free, so please point out any glaring errors 😉)

_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me._

That simple playground retort was something Patsy Mount had never given much thought to when she had spouted it during her youth in Singapore. It was just one of the many childhood rhymes that, once one really thought about it, were rather dark and violent. But unlike rhymes about oranges and lemons or a liar’s burning undergarments, this one resonated far beyond those schoolyard days.

Patsy Mount could not speak for stones, but she was well acquainted with the damage sticks could do. Canes had been one of the weapons of choice for the guards in the internment camps, though they hadn’t typically used them to break bones. That would have been too quick. After all, they needed something to fill their own long days. No, they preferred to place them behind their target’s knees and force her to kneel for hours as she lost all feeling in her legs aside from the sharp pain shooting through her nerves. They preferred to use them to strike her on the back and thighs, leaving stinging welts and oozing wounds latticing her body like some sort of modernist painting.

Yes, Patsy knew the damage sticks could do. But even knowing the horrors that they, and presumably stones, could bring, she also knew that words were just as capable of inflicting pain. Of leaving scars.

_Take care of your little sister._

_You need to let her go now._

_I know what you are._

_But I can’t. And that’s that._

_Are you a friend of mine?_

Over the course of her life, words had inflicted far more lasting damage on her than any physical wound. But there was one phrase that had heralded more pain in Patience Mount’s life than any other. Three little words, that when combined, could instill more cold terror in her than any other words, sticks, or stones could ever hope to muster. 

_I love you._

  
  


_\-----_

  
  


Of course, it hadn’t always been that way.

As a child, Patsy had had no qualms with those three words. She had spoken and heard them almost daily - so often, in fact, that they had even begun to lose some of their potency. Become routine. Expected. Benign. Fact.

It was also during this time in her childhood that she began to develop an understanding of the importance of words themselves. Not _those_ words, mind. They were still a given. No, Patsy’s initiation into understanding the weight that a word could carry began around the age of eight in the most personal way imaginable. It began with her name.

At that time in her life, Patsy wasn’t yet Patsy. She was Patience. 

The Mount family was far too proper for diminutives, so she was Patience, just as her sister was Elisabeth not Betty, Bess, Libby, or Liz. But when she was eight-years-old, Patience realised that her name was quite different than that of her sister. Unlike Elisabeth, her name wasn’t just a name. It was a word.

 _Patience_. 

Of course, she had known this already - the irony of the fact that Patience wasn’t a very patient child was, by that time, a long-standing family joke. But it wasn’t until an unassuming Sunday morning that she realised that her name held even more significance than simply some mildly clever word-play.

She had been sitting in Sunday School when it happened. If she was honest, Patience hadn’t been paying much attention until her name had been called. She had looked up, red-faced, ready to apologise to their teacher for her inattention, when she realised her name had not, in fact, been called, but rather, listed.

_Faith, Hope, Charity, Chastity, Patience, Temperance, Diligence, Kindness, and Humility._

Her name wasn’t simply a word, it was a _virtue_. It came with expectations and weight that, despite sharing a name with a former queen and current princess, Elisabeth’s simply did not carry.

At the time, it had made her feel rather important. Her name _meant_ something. Something special. Perhaps even sacred.

But that feeling didn’t last long. 

  
  


——-

In the internment camps, no one was special. The Japanese guards had made certain that all their prisoners understood that fact. Those sneering men barely saw them as people at all and had certainly never bothered to address any of them by _name_. To the guards, they were just a parade of sunburnt faces and withering bodies whom they had the shameful misfortune of watching over. 

No, as the women and children waited for hours in the sun for tenko, picked the glass and maggots out of their meager portions of rice, attempted to clean themselves with the dwindling supply of well water, and were moved from camp to camp to camp with ever worsening conditions, they might have all been named Patience. Or perhaps Humility would have been more apt. 

At the time, Patience was just happy that she hadn’t been named Faith, or worse, Hope.

In the coming years, she would learn that the only thing special about her was that she had survived. One-third of the women and children in their camps, and two-thirds of her own family, had not. And the question of _why her?_ still tortured her to this day. Was she really more virtuous or deserving than Elisabeth or Mother? Would her sister have made it too had Mother named her Charity or Prudence? The rational part of her thought not. But even though she had since lost her faith in the existence of the Almighty, the guilty part of her couldn’t help but wonder.

  
  


\-----

  
  


A few months after the camps had been liberated, Patience boarded a boat bound for England. It was the second time in four years that she found herself saying goodbye to her father, not knowing when she would see him next. But unlike the emotional farewell they had all shared before they were separated and interned, this time there were no tears. There was no Mother or Elisabeth either.

No, this goodbye was silent, at least on her end, although her father seemed quite incapable of stemming the tide of words flowing out of his mouth. Perhaps he thought he was trying to reassure her, but looking back, she thought it more likely he was trying to reassure himself. To justify his decision. He told her how boarding school would be good for her. How she would catch up on her lapsed education. How she would make friends with girls her own age. How it would do her good to get away from all this.

 _All this_. 

What a neat way of summing up the horrors of the last four years. Oddly, she quite liked it. It was comforting in its distancing. 

_This_.

This war. This place. This loss. All this.

The mental and emotional distance that one little word provided made it easier to face the physical one that was to come. The farther she got from _all this_ , the lighter she felt. The easier it was to breathe.

Unfortunately, her father had failed to reckon that he was a part of _all this,_ too. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Patience arrived at her new school on a cold, misty morning in January, 1946. 

St. Mary’s was a proud, strict, Catholic institution, so she was hardly surprised to meet other girls with virtuous names. But Grace, Constance, Prudence, and Faith hardly seemed to live up to their titles, and Patience found a strange sort of relief in that. 

Another unexpected source of relief was found in that first week when her rather proper roommate, Edith Garnett-Botfield, had performed her surprisingly spot-on impression of Mother Gertrude. 

Patience had been scandalised. Not only had she been taught to respect her elders, she had practically been raised by the Sisters of Carolus Borromeus during her final year of captivity. Never, in all her nearly thirteen years, had she witnessed someone _mock_ a _nun_.

Her incredulity must have shown on her face, for Edith just laughed.

“Oh come now, Patsy, it’s only a bit of fun. We _can_ have that, you know,” she said, flopping back down onto her bed and popping a sherbert lemon into her mouth, “She’s the one who took vows, not us.”

It was like a revelation.

_Patsy._

From that moment on, Patience became Patsy to everyone but her father. It was such a small change in the grand scheme of things, yet it still made her feel like a completely different girl. 

_Patience_ had suffered for nearly four years in an internment camp. _Patience_ had been dour and sad. Had lost her mother and sister in the war. Had shut her heart to her father.

But _Patsy_ wasn’t burdened by the weight of her name. _Patsy_ was starting a new life in an entirely new country - a new _hemisphere_ . Maybe _Patsy_ could even have a bit of fun now and again. 

How marvelous.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Part of Patsy hated to admit it, but her father had been right about school.

In this strange, cold, drizzly climate amongst the sweeping green lawns and old gothic buildings, she could almost go entire days without thinking about the camps.

She even thought she was beginning to make friends.

Edith - or Edie, as everyone called her - was her first, if only by proximity. She’d been going to St. Mary’s since she was old enough to board, and with her seal of approval, Patsy naturally fell in with her group.

She’d been lucky, really. Patsy knew she looked frightful. She was still far too skinny, even by wartime rationing standards, and her hair was lank and barely chin-length, not having grown out from where it had been chopped short to rid it of lice during her last year of captivity. But Edie hadn’t treated her like the oddity that she was. And better, she hadn’t pitied her either.

Instead, Edie took Patsy under her wing, and her set had soon followed suit. Eleanor, Margaret and Faith, or as she soon learned, Nell, Peggy and Harry - it seemed no one at St. Mary’s went by their Christian names, not even Faith Harrington-Coldwell-Morton - soon became her friends too. At first, Patsy felt like a hanger-on, but by the end of her second term, she had truly been accepted in her own right.

  
  


\-----

  
  


If Edie had been her first friend, Nell became her best. 

Patsy couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that drew her more to Nell than the other girls, but whatever it was, it seemed to be mutual. Whenever the five of them piled onto each other’s beds or snuck away to smoke out on one of the old stone walls at the edge of campus, Patsy and Nell always seemed to find themselves pressed side by side. 

Nell just seemed to understand her better than the others did.

She was from Coventry.

She knew what it was to lose everything.

She didn’t give Patsy that quizzical look like the others did when she would suddenly fall silent or hastily excuse herself. Nell would simply seek her out. Sit with her. Hold her hand.

And little by little, month by month, year by year, Patsy began to have less and less of those moments. But Nell still found reasons to seek her out in private. To sit with her. To hold her hand.

Then one day in fourth form, Nell kissed her.

It wasn’t Patsy’s first kiss. It wasn’t even her first kiss with a girl. They had all practiced kissing with each other many times by then in anticipation of prospective future dates with the boys from Divine Mercy. 

But this kiss wasn’t practice. Not for Patsy. And apparently, not for Nell either. She could tell by the panicked look in Nell’s eyes when she pulled away. By how she spluttered apologies and hastily fled from their secluded spot hidden in the boathouse loft.

Patsy was stunned. 

And more than a little elated.

Nothing, in all her life, had made her feel like that kiss had done. Not all the previous practice kisses with all the other girls, not even the practice kisses with Nell herself, and certainly not the kiss she’d shared with Eddie Clayden outside of one of the interschool socials.

It was as if a brilliant, glittering light had suddenly been switched on, brightening the dark corners of Patsy’s previously dim life. She sat there for a long time, dumfounded, as so many moments and feelings from over the years began to suddenly make sense now that she could finally see them properly.

_Illuminated._

That was the word. Bright, clear, and adorned with shining gold leaf - like those gorgeous illustrations in the corners of an old manuscript.

She knew it should feel wrong. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way about another girl. She knew there must be something wrong with her, and apparently, Nell as well. Perhaps it was because of all that they had both been through in the war - all that pain and loss. Perhaps something had been broken in both of them.

But honestly, Patsy could hardly care. She certainly didn’t feel broken. Sitting in that dark loft, amongst all the dust and the cobwebs, Patsy had never felt so alive. So entirely whole.

The next time, Patsy was the one to kiss Nell.

  
  


\-----

  
  


It was the best year of Patsy’s young life.

Around the other girls, she and Nell were still as close as ever, and no one seemed to have cottoned on to the fact that the _entire world_ had changed, at least for Patsy. She had read enough novels to recognise this feeling that had taken root deep in her chest. For the first time in her life, Patsy Mount was in love. 

She felt like an entirely different person. A part of her wished she could claim yet another new name, for this Patsy was a far cry from even the new girl she had become when she had first arrived at St. Mary’s. This Patsy felt light, giddy. _Happy_ . The pain of her past felt numbed by the bright radiant balm that was _Nell_.

Nell and her soft chestnut hair. Nell and her kind, honey-brown eyes. Her teasing, crooked smile. Her joyful, bubbling laugh. Nell and her soft, perfect, _perfect_ lips that said so many glorious things and that Patsy could not get enough of kissing.

Patsy loved her.

  
  


\-----

  
  


She told her on a late December afternoon in fifth form. 

It was the day before they were all set to board their respective trains home for Christmas break. Patsy was happy. So happy, in fact, that not even the prospect of two entire weeks with her father in their empty London townhouse could dampen her spirits.

The day was lovely. Cool, yet mercifully dry, and Harry convinced them all to sneak out for one last fag before term ended. Patsy sat on the old stone wall, contentedly letting her heels bounce against the mossy surface. The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanting across the brown grass making it shine gold. It wasn’t the lush greens and vibrant colors she had grown up in, but Britain was quite lovely in its own way. 

Patsy turned her head, smiling as Nell shot her a wink as she took a drag on her cigarette.

Quite lovely, indeed.

“There, we had a smoke,” Peggy said, stubbing her barely-smoked cigarette against the wall and letting it drop. “Can we go in now? I’m bloody freezing,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands along her biceps as she shivered dramatically.

The others all collectively rolled their eyes.

“Oh, quit your whinging. It’s nearly fifty degrees out, _and_ we’re in the sun. _And_ you’re _Scottish_ .” Harry teased, “You don’t see Patsy complaining do you, and _she’s_ from the tropics.”

They all laughed, even Patsy. She barely even felt that familiar twist of her stomach that usually came with mentions of her upbringing, but perhaps that was down to the fact that Nell had leaned just the slightest bit to the side, pressing closer to her.

Peggy collapsed back against the wall with a disgruntled huff, casting her wasted cigarette a regretful look. Edie leaned in beside her, bumping their shoulders together and offering up her open cigarette case.

They stayed there together as the sun dropped lower and the sky glowed pink. The five girls laughed and joked their way through another cigarette each, all but Peggy wanting to linger in their freedom and each other’s company for as long as they could.

Patsy was going to miss them all over break.

The pink of the sky was well on its way to a gorgeous lavender when Edie finally took pity on the shivering Peggy. Even Harry seemed ready to call it a day, swiftly swinging her legs back around to the school-side of the wall and hopping down from her perch. 

“You coming?” Edie asked.

Nell shook her head. “I think I want to stay to watch the sunset,” she turned to Patsy, “Unless you’re too cold?”

Patsy shook her head, her mouth quirking up into one of her fish hook smiles as she shot a playful look at Peggy. “Not at all.”

Peggy huffed, but Edie just slung an arm around her shoulders, steering her back towards the school as Harry followed along, howling with laughter. As soon as the sounds of their footsteps and Harry’s teasing began to fade, Nell threaded their fingers together.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, biting her lip as she looked out at the glowing horizon.

Patsy let her head drop down onto Nell’s shoulder. “It’s only two weeks,” she said, trying to sound more optimistic than she felt.

“Two weeks is a long time,” Nell sighed.

Patsy lifted her head. “What is it they say?” she said, giving her girlfriend a weak little grin, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Nell let out a wry laugh. “I don’t know who _they_ are, but I rather think they must be a pack of idiots.”

Patsy hummed her agreement. “Although, is ‘pack’ really the word for a group of idiots. I rather think it should be something more clever, like a gaggle...or perhaps a parliament, like owls,” she paused, considering, “A flock at the very least.”

“Fine,” Nell laughed, leaning into Patsy’s side, “They must be a gaggle of idiots, then. Happy?”

Patsy grinned, pressing back, “Quite.” She kicked her legs a little, letting her heels bounce off the springy moss. “But it doesn’t matter what _they_ say anyway,” she said, voice turning sheepish, “My heart is quite fond of you already.”

Nell leaned into her. “Mine too,” she whispered.

Patsy turned to her. Nell was facing the sunset, but her eyes were closed, a small, contented smile playing across her face. She seemed to be basking in the last rays of warmth, like a cat, or a blooming flower. The feelings that had been building and building inside of Patsy just couldn’t be contained any longer.

“I love you,” she said, steady and sure.

Nell’s breath caught as her eyes flew open. She looked at Patsy. The setting sun made her eyes look more honey than brown, and there were so many emotions swirling in them that Patsy felt caught in their slow, steady flow.

Before Nell could say anything, Patsy kissed her. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Nell was right. Two weeks really was a long time.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Patsy barely glanced at her room as she dumped her case at the foot of her bed and went out in search of the others.

And Nell.

She found them at their usual spot out by the old stone wall. Patsy grinned as she approached. After two excruciatingly awkward weeks spent with her father, she was so happy to be back with her friends. 

And most of all, Nell.

She raised her hand to wave at them, calling out her greeting. But Nell seemed to be avoiding her eyes. The others were too.

Well, except Edie. 

Edie was practically glaring at her.

Patsy’s greeting wave faltered, and she let her hand drop.

Something was wrong.

She’d never seen Edie look like that. She was always so welcoming - their own mother hen who took care of them all.

“Everything alright?” Patsy hesitantly asked as her eyes flitted from face to face.

She caught Peggy and Harry stealing glances at her, but they both looked away as soon as their eyes met, looking haughty and embarrassed, respectively. The look was a familiar one on Peggy, but Harry was _never_ embarrassed. Not even when she had tripped on her way up to receive communion and had spilled wine all down the front of Father Gregory’s white vestments.

But worst of all, Nell still wasn’t looking at her.

“No. Everything is _not_ alright,” Edie snapped, stepping in front of Patsy and blocking her view of Nell. “And you can quit looking at her like _that_ . She doesn’t want anything to do with you and your…” she spluttered for a moment, red-faced and seemingly searching for the right word, “...your _perversions_ ,” she finished, looking disgusted.

Patsy felt her stomach drop so violently she thought she might be sick. 

Edie _knew_. They all did.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Patsy weakly protested, even as the edges of her vision began to turn white.

Edie’s usually amiable face twisted into something Patsy could never have imagined on her kindhearted friend. It was contempt. Contempt and utter revulsion.

“I know what you are,” she spat, “I _saw_ you. I saw you…” she looked around, lowering her voice to a scandalised whisper on the next word, “... _kiss_ her. You’re nothing but a disgusting, vile, rapacious _queer_ ,” again, the final word was hissed out in a whisper, but it sounded in Patsy’s head like a thunderclap.

 _Queer_.

She stumbled back a step as if struck.

 _Queer_.

Her teary eyes sought out Nell again, and this time, those gorgeous brown eyes were looking right at her. Gone was their usual warmth and affection. All Patsy saw in them was shame.

Patsy took another faltering step backwards.

“Nell?” she choked. A question. A plea.

Nell shut those beautiful honey-brown eyes and sighed. “Just go, Patsy.”

Patsy couldn’t breathe. She turned and fled blindly back to the dorms.

It wasn’t until she had sunken down onto her bed, empty and shaking all over, that she noticed that Edie’s neatly organised things were missing from the room.

She was alone.

Again.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Patsy would say that her final year or so of school was one of the longest in her life, but that would be a gross exaggeration. It was miserable, but she knew it could have been worse. 

By some stroke of luck, Edie and the others never spread what they knew about her any further than their own circle. Patsy liked to think that was out of respect for the friendship they had shared, but she knew it was likely done more for Nell’s benefit than her own. No matter the reason, she was relieved not to be a total pariah.

Still, she missed them all, even Peggy. 

She missed Nell so much it ached.

Fencing proved a marvelous distraction. If she wasn’t studying, Patsy could be found on the strip, honing her focus and technique. Eventually, she even began to make friends with some of the other girls in the club. Still, she kept them at a safe distance. Letting them in just enough to dull the pangs of loneliness, but never close enough to really see her. 

It was safer that way.

  
  
  


\-----

  
  


After school, with all thoughts of love and romance fully behind her, Patsy moved to London to begin training as a nurse.

Even if she hadn’t already learned her lesson from her experience with Nell, the speech Matron gave them all at orientation would have driven that point home. As representatives of the London Hospital, they were expected to uphold the highest moral standards. No scandals or unnatural tendencies would be tolerated. 

_Unnatural_.

Yet another word that carried far more weight than its dictionary definition. No one ever said as much, but they all knew exactly what was meant by it. 

Queer. Deviant. Immoral. _Wrong_.

Patsy found it all a bit ironic. She might have learned her lesson about acting on those inclinations, but that didn’t change what she was. Edie, for all her self-righteous bluster, had at least been right about that. For Patsy, having those kinds of inclinations towards a man was what was _unnatural_. Try as she might, that was what felt wrong. 

Still, she occasionally let some of the girls from her training cohort fix her up with the friend of whatever chap they were seeing at the time. She’d smile. She’d laugh. She’d dance. And then, she’d politely decline their offer for a second date. The other girls might chide her for being so picky, but they never enquired much further than that. Patsy never gave them a chance to. She purposely didn’t let herself make any real, close friends who would pry deeper into her true motivations. Not that Patsy was unfriendly, per se, but by that point in her life she had become very good at developing the illusion of intimacy without actually revealing any intimate details. She had her father to thank for that. She had practically been bred for it.

To some, that kind of life might have been dreadfully lonely, but Patsy found a sort of comfort in her secure, semi-isolation. She had a fulfilling career and a group of people who weren’t quite friends, but were more than mere colleagues, that she enjoyed spending her free time with. All in all, it was the best life she could have hoped for.

Then, in her final year of training, Delia arrived.

  
  


\------

  
  


Patsy hadn’t noticed her at first. After all, Delia had been in her first year and Patsy her third. They ran in different circles. Had different courses and different groups of friends - or, in Patsy’s case, close acquaintances. That smiling, dimple-cheeked face had simply been one amongst the crowd of chattering new girls whom Patsy had no intention of getting to know.

Then, the first years began their clinical rotations, and Delia was one of the three new trainees assigned to the same ward as Patsy. Still, aside from her accent, the Welsh brunette had hardly stood out. She had looked just like the other young students - nervous, eager to please, and just a touch terrified.

That all changed midway through that first shift. Patsy had just begun her second round of checks for the patients’ vitals. She was adjusting the sphygmomanometer cuff around the arm of the patient in bed four when she noticed the woman’s bemused expression.

“Everything alright Mrs. Desmond?” she asked.

In lieu of a verbal reply, Mrs. Desmond simply nodded at the bed across the ward from her. 

As Patsy pumped the bulb to tighten the cuff, she followed her patient’s gaze to find one of the first years trying - and failing quite spectacularly - to make the bed properly. Not wanting to call more undue attention to the girl’s struggles, she returned her focus to taking her patient’s blood pressure, twisting the airflow valve as she listened silently for the first pulse of a heartbeat. Nevertheless, she could not help sneaking glances at the still struggling nurse as she undid her sloppy attempt at a hospital corner and tried again. The poor girl was on attempt number three by the time Patsy was unhooking the blood pressure cuff from Mrs. Desmond’s arm and recording the reading in her notes.

“Poor lamb,” whispered Mrs. Desmond, “I’d have half a mind to hang myself with those sheets by now if I were her. Wouldn’t you, Nurse?”

Despite privately agreeing with her, professional decorum had Patsy shooting the woman a slightly chastising smile, and her own compassion had her deciding to take pity on the new trainee nurse.

The ward sister was nowhere in sight, so Patsy decided to risk temporarily abandoning her rounds and walked over to the frustrated nurse. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. Patsy wasn’t normally one to find humour in another’s torment, but the scene before her was simply too amusing not to. 

The petite brunette nurse seemed to be carrying on a conversation with herself, her obvious recriminations punctuated with frequent huffs of irritation. The low volume of her voice combined with the unfamiliar accent made it difficult for Patsy to make out exactly what was being said at first, but as she moved closer, her words became clear.

“Oh well done, Busby. You’re making a right pig’s ear of things. First day on the ward and defeated by a ruddy sheet. At least Mam will be happy when they toss you out and you have to go slinking back to Wales.”

“Oh dear,” Patsy said brightly, “Talking about oneself in the third person. Things _are_ looking grim.”

The brunette spun around, her flushed face instantly draining of colour. Patsy tilted her head to get a better look at the bed corner being partially blocked by the young nurse’s body, but she simply slid to the side to better cover it.

Patsy raised one unimpressed eyebrow.

The girl deflated.

In fact, she looked so utterly defeated that Patsy began to feel rather guilty over her previous amusement. She glanced around, making a quick visual sweep of the room for the ward sister, but she seemed to still be occupied elsewhere. Everyone else seemed busy too. In fact, the only soul paying them any mind at all seemed to be Mrs. Desmond, but Patsy could hardly fault her for that. She knew how tediously boring being in hospital could be.

Patsy ducked her head slightly to catch the other nurse’s downcast gaze. “It’s only nerves,” she said, trying to soften the usual plum demeanor she tended to adopt when on duty, “What I always say is, get the first thing right, you soon calm down.”

The girl chuckled wryly. “That’s all well and good, but as you can see, I clearly haven’t _gotten_ the first thing right,” she said, gesturing to the mess of a corner behind her and sighing.

Patsy shot her an amused fish hook smile. “I never said you had to get it right on the first go. Here, let me show you.”

She untucked the wadded sheet and did her best to smooth out the wrinkles. Then, narrating her movements, Patsy proceeded to fold and tuck the sheet neatly into place. Standing, she turned to the brunette, giving her a bright smile.

“There. Now you try.”

The brunette looked skeptical. “You make it look so easy.”

“Years of practice,” Patsy said, thinking of all the years of bed checks at St. Mary’s. Making a proper bed was a skill she had perfected well before her own training had begun. 

The girl - what had she called herself, Buckley? - seemed to steel herself, giving her shoulders a little shake, before approaching the other bed corner with a determined stride. It was slow going, but at last she managed a neat, crisp hospital corner. It wasn’t quite as tight as Patsy’s, but the blonde was confident she’d get there eventually.

“There, all shipshape and Bristol fashion,” Patsy said, placing her hands on her hips.

The first-year nurse grinned at her, looking a mix of proud and relieved. She opened her mouth to speak, but the squeak of the ward door’s hinge followed by the familiar clacking of the ward sister’s shoes had them both scurrying back to their posts. 

Later that night, Patsy was sat on her bed, enjoying a cigarette as she flipped through the latest issue of Photoplay, when a knock sounded on her door. She opened it, surprised to find the first-year student from that afternoon smiling nervously up at her.

“Nurse Mount, isn’t it?” she asked, and at Patsy’s mute nod, she continued, “I’m Delia. Delia Busby.”

Patsy’s feeling of questioning surprise must have been written clearly across her face because the girl - _Delia_ \- barreled on. 

“I wanted to thank you for today,” she said.

Patsy tried to wave her off. “It was nothing...”

But Delia cut her off, “It _wasn’t_ ,” she said, somehow making those two words feel heavy with the earnest sincerity shining behind those blue eyes.

“Well,” Patsy said, suddenly feeling the need to avoid eye contact, “You’re quite welcome.”

She stepped back, ready to close her door, when Delia piped up, “I was hoping you’d let me thank you properly,” she said, pulling her cardigan back to reveal a bottle of scotch.

Patsy glanced hastily down the hall to ensure that the night matron wasn’t making her rounds. It was the fear of being caught that had her stepping aside to allow the girl’s entrance, or at least that was what she told herself.

“You can call me Patsy.”

After all, she could be polite, have one drink, ease the other girl’s sense of obligation, then send her on her way.

Best-laid plans.

  
  
  


\-----

  
  


There was something about Delia Busby.

Despite her best efforts, Patsy just couldn’t turn her away. That one drink had quickly turned into two, and the next thing Patsy knew she was laughing, truly laughing, for what felt like the first time in years.

Delia wasn’t like the other girls. She didn’t gossip about the availability of the junior doctors or lament that she would have become an air stewardess if she’d known how much of her training would have consisted of scrubbing bedpans.

Instead, she asked Patsy about her experiences with nursing. She listened with shining eager eyes as Patsy told stories from her own first year and beyond. She even took it in stride when Patsy inevitably deflected inquiries about her life before training school, simply sharing her own stories about growing up in Pembrokeshire or the culture shock she had experienced when she first arrived in London.

Delia was different. And by the end of the evening, Patsy was beginning to think she might just have made her first real friend since boarding school.

Perhaps having a friend wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, it wasn’t like it would ever become anything more than that. Patsy was finished with romance.

  
  


\-----

  
  


A year later, when Delia kissed her, Patsy thought that perhaps she could give romance one more shot.

  
  


\-----

  
  


There was something about Delia Busby.

Being with Delia made her begin to feel the heavy pull of a word that hadn’t passed Patsy’s lips in years.

 _Love_.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in it. Far from it. There had been periods during her twenty-four years of life in which Patsy had loved and been loved so fiercely that she had no doubts on the existence of the phenomenon. It wasn’t even that she was particularly afraid of the emotion itself.

No, it was the words that made her dread. That three-word phrase that all the girls her age romanticised and gushed about filled Patsy’s heart with an icy cold terror.

They were the last thing she and Elisabeth had said to their father before they were separated on that dirt road in Sumatra. They had been amongst the last words she spoke to Mother as she lay dying in the hospital barracks on Bangka Island. And then, not a month later, to Elisabeth as the same illness took her away as well. The only person she had said them to since had been Nell, and well, that had turned out rather poorly.

So, as that feeling for her friend began to grow in her chest, Patsy kept silent, and remained so even as Delia became far more than just a friend. 

On her better days, Patsy justified it as caution. When she was being charitable, superstition. But on her worst, when she was actually being honest with herself, she could call it what it was - cowardice. 

It helped that their particular situation made saying those words so dangerous. They had to be so very careful. So they found other ways, other phrases. Their own secret code.

_Keep warm._

_Take care._

_Your secret’s safe with me._

Then one night, safe behind the door of her room in the Nurses Home, Delia had said _those three words_.

Patsy had been lying on her back, her hands sunk deep into chocolate-brown hair, Delia’s weight pressing her into the mattress as she kissed her. 

Kissing Delia was like a revelation. A constant string of epiphanies telling her _this is happiness, this is what living feels like, this is where I belong, this is home_ . Even a year on, she was still surprised at how much kissing Delia Busby made her _feel_. 

She was so lost in all the rushing sensations that it took her several seconds to realise Delia had pulled back. Patsy’s lips chased air for a moment before she dazedly blinked her eyes open to find her girlfriend studying her with a curious intensity.

There was something in Delia’s face that filled Patsy’s chest with an exquisite ache. It was intimate. Reverent. Full of utter adoration and...

“I love you.”

It was as if time stopped. Patsy’s breath caught in her lungs, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn her heart stilled as well. She had never felt more overjoyed and terrified in equal measure. 

Delia _loved_ her.

Delia loved _her_.

And oh, how she loved her back. 

Patsy knew she should say it too. Knew just what the way her heart tugged in her chest meant. Knew what those adoring blue eyes were searching for. Knew how the fear began to curl up from her stomach. Knew it was silly superstition. Knew it wasn’t the war. Knew just because she had lost the last four people she had said those words to didn’t mean it would happen with Delia. Knew she could trust her. Knew she wasn’t Nell.

But logic knew no place here. No matter how much she wanted to say them, the words seemed to catch in her throat, choking her with her own fear.

Still, she couldn’t keep silent, either. Not when Delia was looking at her like _that_. 

Instead, she let her hands slide out of that silky brown hair and down to cradle her girlfriend’s face. Patsy looked Delia right in her crystal blue eyes and let another three-word phrase pass her lips.

“I’m the same.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


Honestly, it was rather brilliant.

 _I’m the same_ became Patsy’s stand in for that other three-word phrase that she still couldn’t quite manage to say aloud. In a way, she thought it even better than those dreaded words because she could use them freely, even in public. And, like their other coded words of affection, Delia knew exactly what she meant when she said them.

But, it didn’t stop her from feeling like a coward.

Delia never said anything, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Patsy was avoiding saying those words, but to her credit, she never asked why. As the months passed into years, Patsy thought she could sense hints of her girlfriends growing frustration, but, being Patsy, she willfully chose to ignore them.

Then one unassuming evening, it all exploded.

Patsy had been living at Nonnatus for a little over a year. The change in living arrangements had been hard on them, but Poplar was far closer to the London than that florist in Chelsea would have been, and the switch to district midwifery had rekindled Patsy’s will to nurse.

She was happy, and that fact alone helped dull the pain of distance for them both. It was far from easy, but they were finding ways to make it work. Delia had begun to assist at cubs, and was becoming quite the familiar face in the convent’s halls. They also made sure to spend as many nights off as they could together, going to the pictures or for coffee at the Silver Buckle.

It was at the coffee bar, as Patsy told Delia of the fire at the maternity home, that it happened.

Patsy hadn’t been on duty at the time, but that clearly hadn’t dulled her girlfriend's concern. They both knew that if Patsy _had_ been there, and something _had_ happened, no one would have thought to tell Delia. Patsy could have been hurt or worse, and Delia would have just been left waiting for her at their usual table at the Silver Buckle. 

Unthinkingly, Delia reached for Patsy’s hand, but the redhead, always aware of their very public position, stiffened. 

“Sorry,” Delia mumbled, pulling away, “Just don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

“I’m the same,” Patsy said, giving her a look that made it clear that both meanings were meant.

But Delia didn’t smile like she usually did, like they were sharing a secret. Her eyes flashed with _something_ , but it was too quick for Patsy to tell exactly what. All she knew was that it left her feeling cold. 

Delia inhaled audibly, like the reverse of a sigh, before looking down at the table. Patsy felt her stomach drop.

“I sometimes feel as if we’re ghosts. Half with each other, but mostly without.”

Patsy couldn’t meet her eye. Her body felt light - sickeningly effervescent - as if her blood was fizzing, her nerves buzzing, her ears filled with static.

“I think it would be easier to do what everyone’s so bloody insistent on and get married and just accept that you and I can never be.”

She expected to see some sadness or resignation in those crystal blue eyes, but they were clear. Searching.

Patsy felt the vibration in her body like a resonator finally finding its pitch - _anger_. 

“Delia, do you think I can bear it?”

But it wasn’t really anger. It was defensiveness, and they both knew it. Patsy had always masked her own failings that way. 

Delia stared at her. Hard. 

“I think you cope better with facades than I do.”

It was said with a tinge of bite. Of accusation. And it hit home. Because it was true, wasn’t it?

Patsy had always been more comfortable with hiding. In fact, she actually found comfort in it. It was a lesson she had first learned in the internment camps. Blend in. Be unremarkable. Stay safe. Survive.

She knew it hurt Delia when she pulled back or flinched away from a comforting hand, but she couldn’t help it. It was too ingrained in her. And as frustrating and painful as Delia found it, she understood. 

But this time Delia wasn’t just talking about the secret nature of their relationship. Patsy had hidden behind facades from _her_ too, and it was clear that Delia was finally wondering if it was all worth it.

But again, Patsy chose to hide. This time behind her own scoff of indignation. Acting for all the world as if this was an unfair accusation. As if she had been wrongly accused. 

They were interrupted by some hapless man offering them cake, and Delia took the opportunity to make her exit, storming off in a temper. Patsy was completely caught off guard. She sat there for a long moment, utterly in shock. 

_She_ was the one with a temper, not Delia. Delia was patient and understanding to a fault, at least with her. Always with her. But it seemed even Delia’s patience had its limits, and now Patsy was truly panicking.

She stubbed out her cigarette, tugged on her coat, and hurried after her.

Delia was keeping quite the pace, and despite her longer strides, Patsy practically had to run to catch her. She pulled her to a stop, wobbling slightly as her heel caught on the cobbles.

“You don’t really want to get married do you?” she asked, feeling like her entire world was crumbling.

“Yes. More than anything.”

Patsy felt the tears sting at the back of her eyes, but otherwise she was strangely numb. She felt weightless. Hollow. When Delia reached out to grasp her arm, her whole body swayed with just her light touch.

“To you, you fool.”

The sudden relief made Patsy feel dizzy.

Delia just looked stricken. 

“But I can’t. So that’s that.” 

There were so many emotions playing across her face. So much in that final look. But those last three words felt like an accusation. Why wouldn’t they be?

Because Patsy just let her walk away.

And with each click of Delia’s heels on the cobblestones, Patsy felt that familiar terror of foreboding loss begin to build.

She was losing her.

But this time it wasn’t because she had said those words, but because she _hadn’t_. So foolish. 

Her fear and superstition were losing her the only family she had had since she was twelve-years-old. She could either let it happen, or she could act.

  
  


\-----

  
  


A few days later, she pulled Delia aside after the lantern parade to reassure her. 

“We’re not dead. And we won’t live as we were. We’ll find a way to be together, I promise you.”

It was just a temporary fix. A plaster to staunch the bleeding. But it was all she could say in the square surrounded by children and the sisters.

She knew it wasn’t enough. She knew what was important was what she did, not what she promised.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Her next afternoon off, Patsy took the tube to Hatton Garden. 

She spun a tale to the jewelry store clerk about her dear brother who was on his way home from serving in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines in the Suez Crisis. His girlfriend was a nurse, like her. In fact, she’d introduced them, which was why he’d written to ask her to go and pick out an engagement ring for her. Apparently, he couldn’t wait one moment longer to ask her to marry him, so he wanted to have the ring ready for the moment he saw her. It was all frightfully romantic, but Patsy really thought he just didn’t know what to pick.

She met the clerk’s gaze, and they shared a look, both clearly expressing their amusement with the complete uselessness of most men in these matters.

“Your brother is very lucky to have you,” he said, “I saw many a soldier after the war with their chests full of medals, go absolutely white at the prospect of choosing a ring. Now, what did you have in mind?”

In the end, she picked a basic gold band with a modest diamond. Simple but elegant. Classic. 

“Oh, and I shall need a matching chain for it too. So she can wear it whilst she’s working.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


They were back at the Silver Buckle.

It had been exactly a week since they were here last, sitting one table over, when everything had nearly fallen apart. 

Patsy meant to fix it. She had a plan.

Delia waited at their table as, for once, Patsy had volunteered to select some music. She stood at the jukebox, one hand wrapped around the velvet-lined box in her coat pocket as her eyes skimmed down the list of available songs until it fell on the perfect one.

It was a song Delia loved, and if she’s honest, Patsy did too. She fished a coin out of her other pocket and keyed in selection G5, returning to her seat as the machine cued up the record.

If the smile on Delia’s face was anything to go by, she had made the right choice. But as the music continued to play whilst they sipped their coffee in silence, that smile began to falter.

It was just so awkward.

There was still something missing from Delia’s smile. It seemed slightly dimmer, more reserved. Meanwhile, the ring in Patsy’s pocket was making her nervous, and she knew it was showing by the concerned glances Delia kept throwing her.

She had wanted tonight to be perfect.

She’d planned for a lovely evening spent at one of their favorite places. Coffee and music and just the two of them talking like always. Then they’d go for a walk under the moonlight and Patsy would tell her how she wanted to spend her life with her. 

She could see the flaw in it all now. It was too soon to return here. The painful memories of their last visit were too fresh.

The mood was still stilted when they emerged back out into the street. Delia made as to head in the direction of the bus stop, but Patsy caught her arm and, much to the brunette’s obvious surprise, looped her own through it.

“It’s such a nice evening. Fancy a walk down by the river?”

Delia narrowed her eyes. She knew her too well. 

Patsy was using her overly bright voice, a clear sign that she was hiding something. Caught out, her face scrunched up in a wince of apology.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” she said, giving the passersby a significant look, “But it’d be better done somewhere a bit more...private.”

She felt Delia’s arm tense, betraying her obvious worry about what Patsy could possibly want to ask after the events of the previous week. Nevertheless, she nodded. Patsy gave her arm what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze and began steering them down a familiar path towards the river.

They walked west in silence until they reached a quay near St Katherine Docks. Tower Bridge loomed out of the darkness ahead of them as they came to a stop by the railing overlooking the Thames.

It was a familiar spot. This particular quay was almost due south of Patsy’s former lodgings at the Nurses Home. She used to come here as a student when she’d had a particularly hard day or just needed to be reminded that there was a larger world outside of the London Hospital and its environs. Perhaps it was in her blood. The shipbroker’s daughter, drawn to the water. Or perhaps it was just human nature. If Sister Monica Joan were here, she’d no doubt have a poem to quote about it. Maybe something by Spenser or Tennyson. Probably Keats.

Patsy unhooked herself from Delia’s arm. She leaned her forearms on the ledge and looked down at the dark river below.

She wished she could have done this in the daylight, with the low autumn sun glinting off the water like scattered broken glass. Delia looked so beautiful in that light. There was something about the autumn that suited her. Perhaps it was because Patsy had never known that kind of beauty from her childhood in Singapore and Sumatra where there were no real discernible seasons other than rainy or dry.

Patsy thought there must be a metaphor to be found in there somewhere. Maybe that was why she felt she always had to try to be so even-keel. So steady and consistent. When really her emotions were a binary of extremes. Wet or dry. Hot or cold.

But Delia was the whole gamut. She was the hope of spring, the life-giving warmth of summer, the golden beauty of autumn, the icy glare of winter. She was life. Patsy’s life.

“I hate that we have to hide in the dark,” Patsy said, seemingly addressing her words down to the water below, as she felt Delia settle beside her against the ledge.

“I hate that we can’t dance anywhere except in our own heads, that I can’t let you hold my hand in public, and that we have to work so bloody hard just to get one tenth of what seems so easy for everyone else to have.”

Delia took her hand. Patsy squeezed it.

They stood in silence for a long moment, watching the water. When Patsy finally broke it, her voice was barely a whisper.

“I hate that I can’t marry you.”

Her free hand drifted automatically to her pocket. 

Patsy closed her eyes and took a deep, fortifying breath. She turned to face Delia, keeping a firm grip on her hand as she spoke with a strong, determined voice, “I want that too, more than anything.”

Delia’s face was unreadable.

“I know you think I cope better with it all, but that’s only because the thought of losing you makes me so desperately afraid,” she looked down at their clasped hands, not able to face her girlfriend’s scrutiny as she went on, “I’ve lost everyone that’s ever mattered to me in one way or another. I thought...I thought if we could just stay careful.”

“Pats…”

But Patsy shook her head, cutting Delia off with a weak half-smile. “But I got it all wrong,” she said, choking on a wet laugh, “I was so busy hiding my feelings from everyone else that I even hid them from you.”

She blew out a long breath. Reaching out, she cupped the brunette’s cool cheek in her free hand, tilting her head so their eyes met.

“No more hiding,” she said. Resolute

She looked deep into those crystal blue eyes and let the feelings rise in her chest like water, clear and pure. Those three words that she had been holding back for so long rushed up her throat and pushed against the back of her teeth, waiting for the dam to break.

“I love you, Delia.”

 _God_ , that smile. Delia’s wet eyes may have sparkled in the lamplight, but her smile was blinding. All the dread and weight that Patsy had associated with those words seemed to lift in an instant, leaving her feeling as if she might float away if not for the warm hand clasped in her own.

“I love you, and I never want you to doubt it again.”

Now that she’d said it once, it was as if the ban had been lifted, and she wanted to make up for lost time. Patsy reached into her coat pocket, finding the little velvet box.

“We may not be able to marry, but…” 

Delia’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes grew wide.

“...I’m yours. Always.”

Patsy let go of her hand and opened the box. Delia’s other hand clenched at her chest as she took a shuddering breath.

They stood there frozen for a full minute as Patsy waited for a response.

“If you’ll have me,” she prodded.

Delia blinked, sending tears spilling over her lashes. After another moment, she dropped the hand from her mouth to let out a choked, “Yes.”

Patsy had never heard a more beautiful word. Before she knew it, she was being tugged forward by the lapels of her coat.

Delia was kissing her, and for once, Patsy didn’t even think to look around.

  
  


\-----

  
  


The fluorescent lights just made everything look greener. Sickly. Even the fresh white flowers in her hands seemed to have an anemic viridescence. 

Patsy felt her mouth twist as she swallowed down the sob that was trying to escape. She took a deep breath, addressing her words more to the bouquet in her hands than the woman beside her, “Will her memory come back?”

A long pause. Too long.

“No one will make us any promises.” 

She nodded, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. Delia's mother sounded as empty as Patsy felt. Like a part of her had been cleaved away. The best part.

Mrs. Busby sighed, and Patsy looked up at her at last. She looked drained and pallid in this light too. A wan shadow of the stalwart woman she had heard so many tales about.

“So we’re having to settle for hope.”

Patsy nearly laughed.

 _Hope_.

Another useless virtue. Look where it had gotten her.

Hope that this time it would be different. Hope that she could have a real future with Delia. Hope that she could keep the person she loved with her. Keep her whole. Keep her safe.

She should have known better.

Delia’s mother was telling her that her father was sitting with her while she slept. Patsy was only half listening. She nodded and smiled where she was supposed to, but her mind was filled with conflicting memories of Delia - _her Delia_ \- and the lost girl asleep in the room behind her. 

But then Mrs. Busby said something that got all of her attention, “There’ll be a lot of that when we get her home to Wales.”

Hope, indeed.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Elisabeth had loved flowers. In one of their history lessons, their governess had told them that the Victorians had assigned each flower with a meaning. A not-so-secret language. Their own weight and words to carry. 

The girls had been quite taken with the idea for a while, gifting their mother white ginger lilies ( _sweetness_ ), yellow jasmine ( _elegance_ ) and even the occasional orchid ( _love and beauty_ ) from their garden. 

Patsy left her bouquet of white chrysanthemums ( _loyalty and devoted love_ ) to wilt in the window of the home she would never have. As she slid the keys through the letterbox, she couldn’t help thinking that it was better this way. She’d return to her life at Nonnatus. Leave all this behind.

This place. This love. This dream. All this.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Then by some miracle, Delia was back. 

It took some doing, and a lucky intervention by Sister Julienne, but a mere eight months after the accident they were under the same roof at last. 

Patsy was giddy, there was really no other word for it. When she first saw Delia standing in her new room with Sister Mary Cynthia, she had to bite her lip to dim the beaming smile that wanted to break out all over her face. 

It wasn’t what they had hoped for when they were planning the flat, but after everything that had happened, Patsy felt so incredibly lucky. For the first time in her life, someone she had lost had returned.

Then, less than twenty-four hours later, she found those familiar rose spots on the feverish Jeanette Su.

_Typhoid._

So much misery summed up in one succinct diagnosis. Suddenly, so many memories, so much pain and loss that she had kept pushed down for so many years came rushing forward. 

Mother’s staring, vacant eyes. Elisabeth’s plucking fingers. Their last hours. Their still bodies. Patsy seemed to be seeing it all everywhere, even when she closed her eyes. _Especially_ when she closed her eyes.

_You need to let her go now._

It felt like whiplash.

She had been so _happy_ just hours before, but then… this. Delia was back but Patsy couldn’t let her comfort her, not in front of the others. She couldn’t risk letting her support her through this reminder of the worst moments of her life. Of the painful, gaping loss that, with Delia’s return, had seemed like it could perhaps finally begin to heal, only to be ripped open again. Patsy felt like an elastic band being stretched thinner and thinner and thinner.

It was really no wonder she had snapped.

And of course, it had been at Delia. The only person who truly understood why she was feeling so wretched. The person who was trying to reassure her that it wouldn’t be like before. 

But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Jeannette Su had a real chance of survival, and for that, Patsy really was truly grateful. Delia was right, the new antibiotic treatment _was_ effective, and Jeannette was in hospital - a proper, sanitary, well-equipped hospital. She wouldn’t have to make do with boiled well water, rice sack blankets, and hope. It made Patsy angry all over again at the injustice of it all, which then, only made her feel guiltier.

After a thorough, and well-deserved, scolding from Trixie, Patsy retreated up to her room to change out of her uniform. She really should have gone straight to Delia, but she knew she needed a moment to calm down. To pull herself together.

It only half-worked. By the time she slunk into Delia’s new bedroom, the anger had faded completely, but the guilt and sadness had expanded tenfold. 

“Sorry.”

It was all she could get out around the horrible feelings choking in her lungs. It was a feeble apology, at best. Delia deserved so much better. Better than her weakness, and short temper. Better than her.

But Delia - wonderful, patient, perfect Delia - just rose from the bed, took her hand, and pulled her into a welcoming embrace. And there, safe in her girlfriend’s arms, Patsy finally allowed herself to breathe.

  
  


\-----

  
  


They sat in silence on the bed. 

Delia was turned towards her. Open. Waiting.

But Patsy sat facing forward, her arms pulled in, eyes downcast, trying to keep herself together. She couldn’t face Delia. Not yet. They still needed to talk, and they both knew it. But to do that, Patsy needed a safe distance.

Delia, of course, spoke first. She always had. She’d never been afraid to face a problem head-on. 

“I knew you were thinking about your mother and sister, but I would never have mentioned them,” she cautiously began to explain.

Patsy felt suddenly restless. The urge to run was building, but she settled for fiddling with the skirt of her new dress. It wasn’t laying right. It felt tight around her legs. She plucked at the fabric, tugging it to the side, adjusting the drape of it over her knees.

She could feel Delia watching her. “I know how difficult it is for you to talk about the camp,” she said, gently leading her reluctant girlfriend to talk.

Patsy took a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve been thinking about them all day,” she admitted.

“Of course you have,” Delia said, earnestly reaffirming Patsy’s feelings. Always reaffirming. “It must have brought back so many awful memories.”

_Mother’s staring, vacant eyes. Elisabeth’s plucking fingers. Their last hours. Their still…_

“I so wanted to let you comfort me,” Patsy said, shaking her head to clear it of those awful images that seemed to play behind her eyes like some morbid newsreel. She stole a glance at Delia, still not quite ready to face her fully, but needing to see her face. Just for a moment. Her eyes full of life. Her lungs drawing breath.

“But I didn’t know how to do it with the others there,” she said, looking away again.

Her lips quirked up briefly in a mirthless smile. God, she was such a coward. Had it been Trixie, or Barbara, or gosh, even Mrs. Turner, she would have let them reassure her. But not Delia. She wanted Delia’s comfort so badly that it would surely show. They’d all see. They’d all know. She’d lose her again.

Her skirt still wasn’t sitting right. 

“Patsy, if me being here makes you uncomfortable, I can go. I...I’m sure I’d find somewhere else.”

“No,” Patsy cut in, her voice more sure and firm that it had been since she came in the room. 

That was the last thing she wanted. Delia being here was the _whole point._ Keeping her here was the reason for the caution. Keeping her here, keeping them safe, was what had Patsy fighting against her natural desire to let Delia comfort and reassure her. 

She let out a breath that if it were more ambitious, might have been a laugh. “I don’t want that,” she reached out, taking Delia’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “I want you here. I nearly lost you once already.”

_Delia’s staring, confused eyes. Delia’s cautious, retracting hand. “Are you a friend of mine?”_

Delia’s mouth quirked up into a fish hook smile, so reminiscent of Patsy’s own. She ducked her head slightly to catch the redhead’s downturned gaze. Looking her right in the eye.

“But you didn’t.”

Three words. Unwavering. A promise.

Three words that seemed to calm Patsy’s swirling fears far better than any others ever could. She collapsed forward, and Delia wrapped her arm around her, pulling her in.

_But you didn’t._

_But you didn’t._

_But you didn’t._

_But you didn’t._

  
  


\-----

  
  


She had just placed the final parcel in her suitcase when a white envelope landed lightly next to the bottle of her girlfriend’s perfume. The words _My Love_ inscribed in Delia’s familiar handwriting slanted across its surface, and Patsy’s heart jumped to her throat before dropping low in her stomach. For a moment she couldn’t move, as if the envelope was a coiled snake, not what was sure to be pages filled with heartfelt words of love and devotion. Words that were meant to comfort and assure. Words that would inevitably make her heart ache at their writer’s absence.

It was only a moment before she broke from her paralysis, but as she was closing the lid of her case, Delia spoke and brought Patsy’s world back to a silent standstill.

“I love you.”

It was not the first time Delia had said those three words since coming back to her, but this time felt different. For the first time in years, they were said with some expectation.

Patsy shut the case, locking the clasps with more force than was strictly necessary before swinging it over onto Trixie’s bed. 

“I can’t do this,” she said, hand still clutched around the handle of her blue suitcase like a lifeline.

She hoped Delia thought she meant _go to Hong Kong, leave you, watch my father die_. It wasn’t a lie, after all. But then, it was hardly the truth, either.

Not that it mattered. Delia knew her better than anyone, and Patsy knew that the brunette was not just talking about her leaving either when she replied, “You have to.”

She needed to hear the words. 

Delia was not like her. She didn’t fear them like Patsy did. She hadn’t watched each person she’d ever said those three words to since she was nine-years-old be ripped away from her in the cruelest of fashions. To Delia, those words were a promise of a future - of hope - not of loss. And Patsy knew how desperately her girlfriend needed hope right then.

Still, she delayed. Still, she tried to let her action speak in place of the words themselves. Hoping that if she didn’t actually say them out loud, she might not lose Delia again. Not trusting that she’d be lucky enough for her to come back twice.

But Fred interrupted that plan.

Before she knew it, Patsy was standing on the pavement in front of Nonnatus House, receiving hugs and well-wishes from her fellow nurses, but all she really felt was Delia’s wavering presence.

Her girlfriend looked as if she was about to break apart on the spot. She was standing a good distance away from the others, her arms pressed against her chest as if trying to hold her heart in place. Waiting.

After saying her goodbyes to all the others, Patsy finally turned to her. 

Delia looked as if she was steeling herself for a blow.

Perhaps she was.

Delia knew her well enough by now. She expected to be disappointed. Left wanting and wondering.

But Patsy did love her. She loved her more than the terror building in her chest. So when she wrapped her arms around her one last time, she let those three words fall out on a breath by Delia’s ear. She felt the brunette shake in her arms.

Pulling away, Patsy tried to give her a reassuring look as she squeezed her shoulders, but Delia’s face held a heartbreaking combination of shock, relief, and utter devastation.

After all, Delia knew her too well. She knew what she was thinking. Knew exactly why Patsy dreaded saying those words. Knew they felt so much like a goodbye.

And as the car pulled away, Patsy couldn’t look back. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Patsy had never really doubted that she would return. That had never been her fear. 

No, her fear was that Delia wouldn’t be there when she did. That some great catastrophe would have carried her away. Or, more likely, Patsy’s own silence would have driven her there.

But by some miracle, Delia was here, looking absolutely ethereal under the gently falling snow and the lights of a carousel, of all things. The scene was so unreal that for a moment, Patsy wondered if it was all some hallucination. A wild dream. But as Delia stalked closer to her through the familiar dark rail tunnel, the set of her jaw was enough to bring Patsy back to reality.

Delia was really here. And, by the looks of things, she was furious. Without a word, without even looking at her properly, Delia grabbed Patsy by the wrist and pulled her around the corner in between the archway and the phonebox.

Delia met her eyes at last, but there was so much hurt and expectation in them that Patsy had to look away. 

“I got on the first boat the day after his funeral,” Patsy said, knowing that did little to explain her radio silence over the month prior.

But Delia, like always, skipped right to the heart of the matter.

“I didn’t know,” she said. 

Because Patsy didn’t write. In the final weeks of her father’s life, she hadn’t been able to face the clean, pristine white of her stationary. She hadn’t had the words. 

And then after...

“I didn’t know you were coming back.”

Patsy had been such a fool. 

Delia knew what it took for Patsy to say those words to her back in April. She knew what Patsy had thought they had meant. Why would she take it as a given that Patsy would return? Why wouldn’t she think that maybe this time, it would be Patsy that was lost?

And God, she almost had been. Watching her father slowly suffocate as the paralysis creeped towards his lungs. His vacant, staring eyes. His body as still as death even as he still drew breath. And then there had been the funeral, with stranger after stranger telling her about a man she hadn’t let herself know. Of course she had got on the first boat after his funeral, eager to leave _all that_ behind, this time for good. 

There had only been one thing on her mind.

Delia. 

Always Delia.

“I did. I always did,” she promised, her eyes burning with the intensity of her certainty.

As the ship had sailed from Victoria Harbour, Patsy had made herself a promise. If Delia was still waiting when she got back, she would never let them be parted again. No matter the risk. No matter what others might think.

“And wherever I go next, you’re coming with me.”

And there, right by the phonebox where they had been reunited for the first time after Delia’s accident, Patsy tugged Delia in by the lapel of her coat and kissed her.

No more fear.

  
  


\-----

  
  


_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me._

Yes, Patsy Mount knew the damage sticks could do. And bicycles. And boat voyages. And fear. She also knew that words were just as capable of inflicting pain. Of leaving scars.

But what were scars, if not signs that one had healed. Marks that proved one had survived. 

Patsy Mount was nothing if not a survivor. But then, so was Delia Busby. 

They had both lost so much over the years - themselves, each other - but despite the odds, they had found their way back. 

If Patsy had learned anything from her long absence, it was that knowing that Delia loved her, hearing _those three words_ , had mattered. Had been vital. It had given her something to survive _for_.

_Love._

Love wasn’t to be feared. Real love - love given freely and without reservation - only made you stronger. Love was the very reason they kept coming back to each other. Kept defying society and the odds. No, love wasn’t to be feared, and neither were the words. 

For the first time in two years, Patsy had spoken those three words - _I love you_. She had said them to her father as he lay dying. She had been right, those words did hold power. But they weren’t some magic harbinger of doom and loss. Even knowing that, like with Mother and Elisabeth, they would be some of the last she spoke to him, they had been healing. Had helped soothe those old scars on their relationship. Like Sister Monica Joan had predicted, they had helped ease him on his way.

After all, Patsy hadn’t always feared those words.

As a child, Patsy had had no qualms with those three words. She had spoken and heard them almost daily - so often, in fact, that they had even begun to lose some of their potency. But she’d learned so much since those early, innocent days. Patsy knew she would never take those words for granted again. But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t become more commonplace. Expected. Benign. Fact.

She had come to fear them precisely _because_ she hadn’t said them enough. They had become too rare in her life. Too sparingly used. It was too easy to sift through the sparse data and find a pattern in her own pain. It was like a horoscope, you saw what you were looking for.

Patsy resolved to say them more. To shift the confirmation bias. To give them the power they should have.

Yes, words had power.

Words had the power to leave scars. _Queer. Unnatural. Wrong._

But they also had the power to bind together. _Keep warm. I’m the same. But you didn’t._

One just had to give them the right kind.

As soon as the door to their new shared room closed behind them, Patsy tugged Delia into her arms again.

“I love you,” she said. Calm. Sure.

Patsy loved her. And she would tell her so everyday, for as long as Delia would have her.

**Author's Note:**

> Felt a bit like Vanessa Redgrave there at the end. Cue the montage.
> 
> This story inspired entirely from Patsy's _“see I said it”_ face she gives Delia after she tells her she loves her in S6E2.
> 
> \---
> 
> I hope everyone in coping through this whole crisis. Social distancing is hard even for this introvert, so we need each other now, more than ever.
> 
> To that end, fellow pupcake writers! I have an idea for a little community project. If you think you'd be interested in participating, email me at echo7fic [at] gmail.com for details.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, y'all. 💜


End file.
